


Changing the Future

by armethaumaturgy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Multi, au crossovers sign me tf up, street!Michael
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael peers over the top of the car, knowing he took more time than he should’ve. He took the chance for some quick money, but the bag of explosives tugging his shoulder down (and it is a pretty hefty load) is more than he could’ve hoped for. <br/>If only it had been worth the trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucky strike

**Author's Note:**

> so a while back i had the ingenious idea of combining the fake ah au with [yetiokay's](http://yetiokay.tumblr.com/) michael from the streets au and i was really surprised that i couldn't find any fics like that?? time to remedy that i guess

When you take meth or Ritalin, one of the side effects is that your veins will feel like they have been infested with larvae that had just started pecking out. Like an endless swarm of small bugs flooding your bloodstream and no way to get them out.

That’s how Michael is feeling. Except he hadn’t taken anything, especially not Ritalin and even he stayed away from meth. He scratches his forearm, the sleeve of his battered old hoodie bunched at the elbow and exposing the pale flesh littered with prominent red scratch marks as he only adds to them. In fact, what he feels isn’t at all what the drug-induced, delirious feeling is like. It’s about a thousand times worse, but Michael can’t exactly compare it to anything else. He’s not a poet, for fuck’s sake.

He’s not completely sure why he’s feeling like that, either. His other hand, the one not busy with scratching his skin off, is nestled deep within his pocket, fingers running over the smooth edges of his trusty lighter. He wants to see something get consumed in the beautiful phenomenon people so ordinarily call fire. He wants to see a blazing inferno, be blinded by majestic hues of red and orange, feel heat roll off the licking flames in waves, hear the calming sound of wood cracking as it gets reduced to nothing more than charcoal.

Then again, he wants that all the time, but never ever had it made him scratch his skin clean off. Speaking of, he looks down to see his finders coated in bright red, blood dripping from his nails as he, belatedly, wonders how the fuck he didn’t feel the pain. He sure as hell feels it now.

He yanks the sleeve down and lets it absorb the droplets of crimson gathered on the skin as he shakes his head at himself.

Wandering the streets of Jersey city downtown, he’s left to ponder what he could do to relieve it. Of course, setting something ablaze is the answer. The following question is ‘what will that something be?’ He’s not completely sure yet.

In the midst of his thoughts, he stops paying attention to his surroundings momentarily; a big mistake in the Jersey fuckhole. The streets look deserted, but Michael knows they aren’t – each and every single shadow could be a hiding place for people like him, who wouldn’t put it past them to attack anyone who even faintly looked worth it. He shoves a hand into the pocket of his battered jeans and curls his fingers around the small switchblade that rests there. The coolness of the metal is strangely calming.

He looks into every nook and cranny, all of them burned into his memory by the years spent on the streets and more than one accident. He catches a few deals; some drugs, some firearms. He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to start a fight and, thankfully, it only takes a single look from most people to know not to fuck with him. He still takes care not to trespass on gangs’ territory.

He’s not sure where he’s going, just wanders the streets in search of something that might burn nicely. Maybe an abandoned building…

The sound of a car speeding down the street catches his attention and he immediately ducks into the closest crevice between two warehouses. There’s barely enough space for him to fit, but the shadows hide him nicely from anyone passing by.

The car goes past him, but screeches to a stop just a little down the street. Michael flattens himself against a wall and tentatively peeks out.

It’s a black car, Michael can’t really name it due to his lack of knowledge in the automobile department, but he’s pretty sure it’s a bit too small for the five men that pour out of it. They aren’t anyone he’s ever seen in the Jersey (and he’d seen close to everyone that would have any business in the downtown at this time of the day), and almost like reading his thoughts, one of them tells him what they’re doing here almost immediately.

It’s a man with an impressive moustache, but Michael can’t really pinpoint an age for him. His arms are tattooed and just by a glance Michael knows that a hand-to-hand combat with him would be hard. “Okay, let’s get this deal over with, I can’t afford to be gone too long. Kdin will skin me if I leave more work to him.”

Another pipes up, a wiry-looking boy with a mop of blonde hair that looks even worse than Michael’s, probably. “I’ll just stay here.”

“No!” the others groan simultaneously, almost like they had rehearsed it.

“Why not?”

The Mustache fixes him with a pointed look. “The last time we left you alone in a car, you managed to fall asleep and somehow – I literally have no idea _how_ – you fucking unpinned a grenade _in your sleep_ and would’ve fucking blown up if Ray didn’t forget his DS in the car!”

That seems to shut the boy up and they head to one of the warehouses, poking more fun at the blond’s expense. Michael lingers in the crevice a moment longer, the strong scent of piss burning his nose, but he pays it no mind, his eyes still trained to the car. Did they really leave it unlocked and alone?

Michael bites his lip, glances across the street again. It’s still as still and quiet as before, the only sounds in the vicinity the faint buzz of a dying streetlight and drunken slurs faint enough to be a few blocks away. The itch in his arms has faded to the back of his mind, and with it, the need to see blazing flames.

He gives the faintly illuminated street one last, paranoid glance and finally decides _fuck it what’s the worst that could happen?_ and with that he stalks out of his hiding spot. It feels so fucking bizarre because who in their right mind would just leave their fucking vehicle, unlocked and unguarded, in the middle of Jersey city? Only absolute idiots.

When he yanks the back door open, he half expects an alarm to ring out, but it doesn’t. It’s almost like a huge pressure lifts from his shoulders and he straightens up, peering into the car.

If he thought the car shouldn’t’ve fit the men before, he has no idea how it actually did now. The backseats are half-filled by duffel bags, leaving just a bit over one seat free for actual use. He notes the hot pink sniper rifle on the floor, but moves to the bags eagerly. He opens one cautiously, unsure of what he expects to find inside.

He should’ve guessed, really. There was no way the men were here on any legal deal. A wide array of grenades stares back at him as he blinks down. He feels his lips stretching up on their own and his arms start itching again; he remembers how throwing one feels. He zips the bag up and carefully slings it over his shoulders and opens another one. This one’s full of neatly stacked magnums and he picks one up, testing its weight in his hand. He checks the clip to find it’s full and closes the bag, arranging it so it doesn’t look like anything’s missing at first glance.

Michael peers over the top of the car, knowing he took more time than he should’ve. He took the chance for some quick money, but the bag of explosives tugging his shoulder down (and it is a pretty hefty load) is more than he could’ve hoped for.

He closes the car door as quietly as he could and then he bolts it out of there. He makes it a grand total of half a block before things go to shit.

“Oi!” he hears from behind himself, and spares a moment to look behind himself. The blond is chasing him, surprisingly quick for how often his feet tangle. The others, hearing him, aren’t far behind.

Michael swears quietly under his breath, then loudly, and he ducks into an alley as he hears gunshots echo from behind him. Despite what he’d claim, he isn’t too keen on dying just yet.

He shoves the magnum into his pocket, just barely making sure the safety’s on (he wouldn’t want to shoot his own dick off, thank you very much) and fumbles with the duffel bag. He fishes out a grenade and fights to pull the pin out as he jumps onto a dumpster and over a fence. With just one hand, he’s forced to pull the pin with his teeth as he holds the lever up with his thumb. When he finally gets it, he starts to count in his head.

He’s not sure how long he has, so he skids to a halt and chucks the grenade back over the fence with as much strength as he can. His arm aches and he’s tempted to wait for it to blow up, but he quickly berates himself. No time for that while people are chasing him.

He turns into another alley, the web-like layout of Jersey streets as familiar to him as the back of his hand. Halfway down, he hears a deafening explosion, making his ears ring even as far as he is.

So the grenades have a three second fuse. Good to know.

He ducks behind a dumpster, the stench only barely making him want to throw up. He’d smelled worse; he’d _dug_ through worse. He tries to listen if they’re still after him, but the only sounds he can hear are his labored breathing and beating heart. He considers himself safe, but, just in case, stays hidden. He focuses on calming himself, but he’s still giddy about the explosion, even if he hadn’t seen it.

He pats the duffel bag gently. He can’t wait to use more of his new babies.


	2. Unlucky hit

“What the fuck?!” Geoff roars, kicking the tire of their car in frustration.

“He was fast as fuck, Geoff, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Ray mutters, arms folded, and then frowns. “Or the car, for that matter.”

“Yeah, Geoff, it isn’t that bad,” Jack agrees, not looking up from where he’s bandaging Gavin’s leg. Being the one closest to the grenade, he got himself scratched by some stray shrapnel. Nothing Jack and his first aid kit wouldn’t fix, but he already got his lecture about keeping distance while following someone with a bag of grenades.

“No, Jack, it _is_ that bad!” Geoff seethes. “He made fools out of us!”

Gavin scoffs. “Well, you didn’t bloody want to let me stay!” It’s not that he wants to argue, but he can’t just _not_ say an ‘I told you’, no matter how indirect it may be.

“Done.” Jack squeezes his thigh and a jolt of pain runs through him, making him wince. Geoff, however, ignores the remark completely.

“Once I find out who that fucker was, I’ll make fucking sure he pays for that,” he growls, already unlocking his phone. The others collectively sigh; once Geoff sets to do something, there’s no stopping him.

“Hey Linds,” he says into the phone. The redhead was their number one intel source, but Jack was sure if Geoff had her research more useless shit, she’d just shoot him one day. “I need you to tell me who one guy is. You got a database on Jersey city, right?”

“Do I?” Lindsay mocks, but Geoff can hear her clicking the mouse and bringing up her search engine. “Got a name or just appearance?”

“If I had a name I wouldn’t be calling you!” Geoff groans. “A short guy with curly red hair, runs like a fucking champ and his aim with a grenade is enviable.”

“That’s kind of pretty detailed, you guys alright there?”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

Lindsay pauses. “Wait, did you say short, with curly red hair?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. “In Jersey?”

“Yeah.”

There’s yet another pause; Geoff is starting to like this less and less. “Linds?” he prompts, not sure if he managed to get the annoyance out of his tone.

“Geoff, listen. Don’t fuck with that guy,” Lindsay says finally. There’s urgency in her voice. “That’s Mogar.”

“Thanks for the warning, Lindsay, but no one fucks with my crew and walks away,” Geoff growls, already pulling the phone away from his ear.

“Geoff! I’m serious! Do _not_ fuck with him, he’s—“ Lindsay’s voice cuts off mid-way through a sentence and Geoff shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“Gavin, do you have your stuff here? I need you to track this guy.”

* * *

Michael’s hands are shaking as he unlocks the shithole he calls home. It’s just an abandoned warehouse that he had the luck of finding with keys still in the door, but at least it was dry (mostly, anyway) and provided a roof overhead. The door makes a sound like a dying critter as it swings open slowly and it used to grate on Michael’s ears but now he’s just used to it.

He slides down against it as he closes it after himself, the bag hitting the concrete floor with a heavy sound. His heart is still hammering in his chest as his mind keeps coming back the building that met up with the ground rather intimately thanks to him. He was rather surprised that only a handful of grenades would be able to something like that, but then again, this _was_ downtown Jersey, what would you expect?

When he doesn’t feel like he’ll get a heart attack anymore, he stands up and sets the bag onto the dingy, old couch that dominates the place and plops down next to it. He is hungry, but it’s not that important when he feels satisfaction flooding his whole being, and not only for creating such a pretty explosion. He managed to outrun six men with like ten kilo baggage! He usually wasn’t one to pat himself on the back for stealing, but this time he did, because that was pretty impressive, even if it’s just him saying it. He’s also pretty used to feeling hungry, and he’s sure he could go a few more days without blacking out.

He reclines back against the sofa and lets out a long breath, closing his eyes. He’s not sure when he falls asleep.

_Bang_! _Bang_!

Michael snaps up, hand curling around the magnum by his side automatically. It takes a few seconds for his vision to refocus and adjust, but by then he’s already up on his feet, eyeing the warehouse door warily. He clicks the safety on the gun off.

There’s a few more bangs before silence befalls the warehouse again. Whoever’s on the other side must be preparing to knock it down. Michael curses under his breath and swiftly grabs the only precious thing in the whole place: his backpack. It’s filled with everything he’s managed to squirrel over the years, not counting the small stash of weed that is hidden beneath the couch.

He slings it on and checks the clip of his gun. It’s still full, just like it was when he stole it. It’s too dangerous to use the grenades in here, he thinks, slightly crestfallen, when his eyes fall on the duffel bag. He takes a stance with the gun and hides next to the door, preparing himself.

This close, he can also hear the voices behind the wall. “Just kick it in.” He takes a deep breath and presses a foot against it.

It only takes a single well-aimed kick for the old door to give in. It swings open, almost off the hinges, with a loud screech. Light floods the inside and Michael takes that exact moment to kick himself off the wall.  He braces his hand against the concrete and delivers a kick with his left foot straight into the midriff of whoever it is standing in front of the door. It turns out to be a tall ginger, who doubles over with a heavy grunt and allows Michael to vault over him with ease.

He finds himself in the middle of a semi-circle formed by the others he had seen yesterday, who (to his great luck) weren’t expecting him to do something ballsy like that. There are four guns pointed at him in a moment, but before the Moustache can tell him not to move, he gets yet another ballsy fucking idea.

_Well, fuck it_ , he thinks, and shoots a bullet into the pavement by the Mustache’s feet. The moment of stunned bewilderment is all he needs to kick his shins and run past. Shots ring out behind him and he ducks into the closest alley, once again trapped in a game of cat and mouse. This time, though, he doesn’t have a grenade to help him get out of it.

Footsteps thud heavily behind him; he’s not even sure how many at this point. He sprints through the alleys, left and right, not paying attention where he’s actually going. His pursuers are still hot on his trail, though.

“Fuck!” he swears, gritting his teeth. He can hear distant yells, but they are unintelligible over the sound of his own harsh breathing. He stops by a pair of dumpsters to catch his breath and peek over the corner. He was definitely not made for running like that.

“Well, if it isn’t Mogar,” he hears from the alley behind himself, way too late to react. A forearm locks around his throat and pulls him back harshly, cutting off his air supply. The deep, gravelly voice sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it. Someone else takes a hold of his arms and ties them together with tape too expertly to be new at this. “Didn’t expect to find you here, of all people.”


	3. Mighty crash

Snarling and kicking, Michael’s pulled into the air by the hand gripping around his windpipe. He stares down at some guys in matching red wife beaters as they leer up at him. His supply of air is quickly depleting and he sure as hell doesn’t want to give these guys the pleasure of having him unconscious. God only knows what they’d do with him then.

A tattoo on the arm holding him catches Michael’s eye. It’s so crudely drawn he immediately thinks even he could’ve done a better job, and then right after thinks to his own tattoos. He glances to the other men, and sure enough, their forearms are also adorned with an identical picture – some symbol that is a little too bled in to be recognizable. Except the part where he, yeah, recognizes it.

It’s supposed to be the maw of a dog with red fur, but the red is almost nonexistent and the teeth too close to each other to be perfectly discerned. Still, he knows who these guys are. They are the gang he managed to piss off last month, the Red dogs.

Not that his lonerism didn’t piss off close to all gangs in Jersey, but these guys, it seemed, decided to take it further. He still remembers how they had a mad chase through the whole town; the newspaper talked about it for the next two weeks. And people called _him_ a Mad dog.

“Well, don’t you have anything to say?” the man taunts, grinning from ear to ear in self-satisfaction. Michael wants nothing more at the moment than to punch that expression clean off his face. Instead, he just snarls again. The grin on the guy’s face quickly morphs into a deep scowl and he drives Michael into the wall with a single powerful move. The redhead’s back collides painfully against the brick wall, knocking the air out of his lungs and forcing him to gasp in pain. “Not so mighty now, huh-“

The no doubt painfully long monologue the man was about to unleash on him was stopped in its budding beginning by voices coming from the alley Michael came in from. He’s not sure whether he should feel relieved or panicked.

“You got yourself help? I thought you worked alone,” the man holding him mutters, his tone betraying an attempt at a crude taunt. He nods to his fellows, then at the alley. “Get ‘em.”

The other men crowd around the alley’s lip, waiting not-so-patiently as the Mustache and his men get to them. Meanwhile, Michael is once more driven into the wall, his head throbbing painfully afterwards as he is held out like a bait, almost limp in the guy’s strong hold. The sight makes the Mustache’s group stop dead in their tracks, even as Michael furiously shakes his head (though he isn’t quite sure how well it is visible, it hurts like a bitch).

And then he watches as they are all jumped and tied just like him, but with significantly more fighting back than Michael had been capable of. They are also gagged, unlike him.

“Let’s take ‘em back to boss. She’ll want to play with ‘em first,” the man commands before slinging Michael over his shoulder like he is a sack of potatoes.

The redhead decides to go completely limp, if only to further his chances of getting him to lower his guard. He can feel the heated, angry stares aimed at him by the other captured men all the way through the winding alleys and streets. The Red dogs take them to a van parked near the kids’ park. It’s a home for more drug deals than playing children, though.

Peeking around the guy’s back, Michael can see them loading the Mustache in, then the ginger, and then the blond. Michael decides it a fair moment to act.

He kicks his legs skywards, completely throwing the guy off balance and sending him falling backwards. They land in a heap and he quickly winds his tied hands around his neck, choking him before he can use his weight and position advantage against him. Michael is sure at least one of his ribs is – at best – cracked, so it feels like a walk into Eden when he crawls from underneath the unconscious man.

He punches the closest guy, one pulling out his pistol, and wrestles it out of his hold. One well-aimed bullet to the head is more than enough to make him a standing corpse. He collapses with the small, dark-haired boy still in his hold. Michael turns the barrel of the firearm to the car and his hand shakes only minimally as he sprays the leftover goonies with bullets.

A few crumple, but the van speeds off, back door still half-open, without him being able to do anything. When it gets lost behind one of the many corners, Michael curls his fingers tightly around the too-warm gun.

He rests his back against a wall, the bricks soothingly cool, and swears. His voice is all kinds of messed up, so he coughs to clear his windpipe. His eyes trail to the crumpled bodies, to see the dark-haired boy trying to wriggle out of his bounds. His purple hoodie has a large stain of red on it, but it doesn’t look like it’s his blood.

Though it’s the furthest from what he wants to do, Michael trudges to him and, falling to his knees, carefully ungags and unties him. “You alright?” he asks automatically. He had never liked when innocent people got involved in shit with him, but it did happen from time to time. He was used to it. Though, this boy could hardly be classified as ‘innocent’, he supposed.

“Just swell,” the boy deadpans, rubbing at his red wrists. Michael thinks he used to have glasses, which would explain why the boy’s squinting at him. Or he’s just plain glaring; Michael’s eyesight isn’t the best, either.

Just then he feels something cold at the back of his neck. Slowly, he turns his head enough to see another man standing behind him. The cold steel presses into his skin further as he makes eye contact with the dark skull mask above him.

“Don’t kill him. Not yet, Rye,” the boy in front of him says, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “He’ll help us get back the others, first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Micool.


	4. Shaky rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um yes. sorry for not updating sooner, I've got my hands kinda full with writing for ragehappy secret santa right now. also school. yeeeeeah. ://  
> anyway. here!

The boy in the purple hoodie - now sprayed with the blood of the corpses around them, but fortunately none of his own - bends down to run his hand along the concrete. He picks up a pair of black-rimmed glasses, slightly banged up but uncracked, and places them back onto the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?" the man behind Michael asks, voice muffled by the rubber of his mask.

Purple hoodie nods, locking eyes with the other man over Michael's shoulder. The stare is intense and Michael feels like a third wheel on a date all of a sudden. "I'll feel better when we get the others back."

Then, he turns to Michael, to the barrel of his gun trained to his chest with practises precision. "Who the fuck are you?" he asks and Michael wants to laugh. Just throw himself to the ground and lose himself in psychotic level laughter. It's probably the nerves.

"Who the fuck are you?" he throws back, balancing precariously on a thin line between rage and some sort of a twisted satisfaction.

"We asked first," the masked guy growls into his ear. The sharpened metal presses into Michael's skin and he feels it pierce through the skin. A few crimson droplets bead on the surface and roll down his neck. It's more than a little unpleasant.

Michael weights the situation. These guys are by no means amateurs, but neither is he. _I made so many shitty decisions today, what's one more to the count?_ he thinks to himself.

He twists his hand to point the barrel up at the masked guy and then drops down into a squat. He makes sure to duck his head forward, but he still gets himself a beautiful cut up the back of his scalp. He keeps his hiss to minimum and rolls to the side of the alley as fast as his legs allow him. There he springs to his feet, gun at the ready. There's blood pouring down his neck in a small stream now, but it's less annoying that before, he has to admit.

Purple hoodie and the Mask seem ready to pounce him, but think better of it when he aims at the Hoodie's chest again. "I asked second," he says, his voice not much more than a growl. He keeps his smugness to himself.

"Fake AH crew," Hoodie grumbles, clearly displeased at having been outsmarted by who he probably assumes is just a random dude.

Michael cocks his head a little. "Who?"

Hoodie scrutinizes him with an obviously hurt look. "Fake AH crew. Y'know, kings of Los Santos?"

"Never heard of them."

"Well, who are you? It's only fair you tell us, too," the Mask says. He seems ready to plunge his knife into Michael. About fifty times. Then again, the mask does hide any semblance of an expression, so Michael can't be sure.

The redhead huffs out a laugh. "This is Jersey. Nothing's fair here." He refuses to elaborate, an idea already crossing his thoughts. "You want your crew mates back, right?" Hoodie nods, hands crossed and stance defensive. "So you're help me take the Red dogs out."

"No, you're going to help us," Hoodie forces out. Michael can just about imagine him stomping his foot, like a pampered giant baby.

The redhead pointedly glances at his gun and even cocks it. "Sure, whatever floats your boat, dude," he says with a roll of his eyes. He does lower it a little, however.

After another exchanged look, the Mask slowly sheaths his knife. Michael puts the gun away.

"We'll go back to my place to get the explosives."

* * *

The door to his dingy warehouse is still hanging open, he notes with a sigh as he slips inside. The duo is right behind him, for once silent.

If his mind wasn't in such a revenge-hungry state, he would probably feel a bit self-conscious of his residence. Save for the lone corner near the door, the warehouse is in a desolate state. There are rusted barrels and shattered glass littering the whole place and - he's _pretty_ sure - a raccoon has a nest somewhere in the darkest corner. His old couch is stained all over and in the light looks to be gray instead of the light blue Michael remembers it. Not that he'd seen it with this much daylight in a long time.

He slings the bag of grenades over his shoulder and adjusts under the new weight. His backpack is gone, unfortunately, so he's left with only the few things strewn around the warehouse.

"Fuck," he hisses. There were some valuable things in that backpack! Like his only other hoodie or his favorite lighter. He really hopes that it's okay and that he'll get it back. He really, really hopes so.

Turning to the 'Fake' duo, Michael scrutinizes them. "Hey, you got some weapons?" he asks, falling to his knees and shoving his hand underneath the couch. His fingers brush against a few spiders and more unknown substances than he'd like them to.

"I still have my knife," Mask says.

The Hoodie shakes his head. "We still have our artillery in the car."

"If someone didn't steal it yet," Michael deadpans. He triumphantly pulls out a pistol. Checking its clip, he's pleasantly surprised to find it loaded. He chucks it to the Hoodie. "Here. It's better than nothing."

Hoodie catches it with practised ease. He cocks an eyebrow, though. "You sure you want me to have this? I could just shoot you."

"But you won't," Michael replies definitely, then glances at Mask, "Plus, I'd prefer getting shot to getting stabbed." He pauses, eyes roaming the warehouse unconsciously as he thinks.

He has some connections, some people who owe him, some people who he could easily threaten to do whatever he wants them to. He guesses he'll have to pull some strings to get this shit done. Not that he wants to, but these guys are obviously not going anywhere - especially since he just gave one a fucking gun, _a real fucking smart move, Jones_ \- and really, their presence only gives him an advantage to pull his revenge off easier. No one fucks with Mogar and walks away stark free. Plus, he'd very much like his backpack back.

"Hey, any of you got a phone?" Warily, Hoodie hands him one, a disposable one by the looks of it. "I'll get us into their lair."


End file.
